The Trailsman #396 Read Online Free

­have—­to own the risky order.
    â€œAll right, Fargo. But if it goes bad, I’m arresting you on the spot.”
    â€œTry that,” Fargo said in a mild tone, “and I’ll gut you like a rabbit.”
    Fargo sent Hassan and Turkish Tom the high sign. Without too much trouble they prodded Topsy into the ­brisk-­flowing river. A cheer broke out when the unhappy camel swam clumsily across, ­grim-­faced and vengeful. The remarkable sight was too much for Grizz Bear.
    â€œBoys, I don’t credit my own eyes! Swimming? Hell, lookit! Looks to me like she’s trying to drag her ass out of hot coals!”
    He laughed so hard he hawked up phlegm. The rest of the camels also crossed without incident, although two horses and a mule foundered and drowned.
    Not to be outdone by Fargo, Sergeant Woodrow Robinson pulled his beloved blacksnake whip out from under his duster. He waded a few feet into the water and began cracking the whip and whistling loudly, pretending he was hazing the camels across.
    When the time finally came the Ovaro swam the river easily, Fargo sliding back out of the saddle and taking ahold on the stallion’s tail at the hardest stretch of current. He clambered up the California bank of the river, shook the water from his eyes, and glanced toward the opposite bank.
    Juan Salazar stood looking in his direction as the Mexican prepared his mule for the ford.
    Salazar saw him looking and averted his gaze.
    â€œInteresting,” Fargo muttered.

3
    â€œThere he is, ’ mano ,” said Pablo “the Scorpion” Alvarez. “Skye ­Fargo—­the man who must be killed if we are to control the desert.”
    He handed a spyglass to Jim Butler. The two men were ensconced in a rock nest, watching the caravan across the dry, cracked bed of a vast and prehistoric lake. A third man, his eyes so keen he didn’t need a spyglass, lay in the open sand about ten yards to their left.
    The expedition had crossed the river and formed up into a day camp on the far side of the dry lake. For the past week they had been traveling only at night.
    Butler peered through the glass, watching the ­buckskin-­clad scout strip the leather from his magnificent stallion.
    â€œThe big man,” he muttered. He raised his voice and added: “You been harping all along how it’s the camels will sink us. Now the big idea is to kill Fargo?”
    â€œ Vaya! Get this one a dug!” Alvarez mocked his new gringo partner. “Of course we must kill the camels. But that will take time ­as—­how you say?—they are ­whinnied—­winnowed down. And any fool who gives this ­blue-­eyed killer enough time is marked for carrion.”
    Butler handed the spyglass back to the Scorpion. Murky, ­mud-­colored eyes too small for the skull stared out of the gringo’s dusty and ­beard-­smudged face.
    â€œYeah? All right, maybe he is rough,” Butler said. “He sure looks it. But they say Fargo is a pussy hound. He won’t be looking for trouble from a woman.”
    At this remark Alvarez gave a quick, sharp bark of scorn. “He looks for trouble everywhere, ’ mano , and that is why he still castsa shadow. El Scorpio would never depend on a woman to eliminate him. They are weak reeds in Fargo’s capable hands.”
    Butler’s face creased in a frown. “I gotta admit he did a helluva job on Roberto. Flushed his ass out like a quail.”
    â€œFargo didn’t kill Roberto,” said the man on their left, a ­Mexican-­Pima Indian ­half-­breed. “Pablo did.”
    â€œYou’re fulla shit, Jemez,” Butler retorted. “Pablo was right next to me when Fargo opened up, and he didn’t fire a shot.”
    Alvarez grinned as he smoothed his thin line of mustache with one finger. He had a square, solid jaw and a piercing gaze that could trap a man like lance points. He was the